


never want to put my feet back down on the ground

by Blake



Series: 30 Days of Depeche Mode Bagginshield ficlets [17]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Dragon Sickness, Erebor, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, The Arkenstone - Freeform, all parties are into it but it's a little boundary pushing, fucking on a pile of gold, sex under the influence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:07:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26871148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blake/pseuds/Blake
Summary: You’re keeping it from him for his sake, Bilbo tells himself, pushing that corner of his cloak deep into the gold coins that sink beneath them like so much mud.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Series: 30 Days of Depeche Mode Bagginshield ficlets [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1705147
Comments: 17
Kudos: 50





	never want to put my feet back down on the ground

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first of three little angsty-ish meditations I have about the "if they fucked in Erebor" question. As much as I just want nice things for them, I am also compelled by the fucked up hot things about them. Specifically, I've been doing a lot of comparing between my two brain cells: Legolas/Gimli, who are both so self-assured and optimistic, and Thorin and Bilbo, who are both somewhat insecure and pessimistic. Thinking about it has somehow led me here, so, sorry/you're welcome!

Thorin won’t stop murmuring in Khuzdul. Things Bilbo can hardly pick out individual words from. Things Bilbo can wholly understand nonetheless, because of the molten grit in Thorin’s voice and the sure strength in his arms as he lays Bilbo out across whatever surface he is apparently needed on.

“I can’t understand what you’re saying,” Bilbo says, his voice dizzy as he looks up at the endless, tall arches of Erebor’s ceilings.

He’s half-afraid his interruption will make Thorin stop and come to his senses. It only makes Thorin bite harder at the sensitive skin of Bilbo’s neck, makes him groan wordlessly as he sucks a mark that is sure to show. As if being wrestled into a pile of gold by a giddy dwarf isn’t enough of a show. 

“You look a mess, rutting into me here in the middle of your halls like an animal,” Bilbo admonishes, but there’s laughter in it because he is happy, and his legs wrap around Thorin’s middle, which is wide and heavy with all he has adorned himself with since reclaiming his throne. Bilbo is giving mixed signals, he supposes. At least he’s not speaking in a foreign language.

Thorin murmurs some more gilded filth into the tender line above Bilbo’s collarbone, sounding absolutely out of his mind with lust, or greed, or something.

It’s all wrong. Bilbo knows he should feel that it’s all wrong.

But Thorin’s seeming intoxication is intoxicating. Bilbo has never in his life so much as dreamed of so much as having another gentlehobbit hold his arm at market for all to see. The very idea shocks and appalls.

But the idea of being so passionately desired that prudence falls to the wayside, of being the bright jewel that a king would have his people see him wear—Bilbo finds that shockingly appealing.

Thorin’s hand reaches into Bilbo’s trousers and holds him in his hand like something most precious. Right there, atop a pile of uncounted gold, in a room where anyone could walk in and see, unless they were deterred by the low, reverent growls of Thorin’s voice. It’s absolutely horrifying. It’s nothing Bilbo Baggins would ever allow.

It’s nothing Bilbo Baggins would have allowed before he’d been spoilt by the thought that he could be good enough to be treasured by the greatest king of his age.

Curses spill from Bilbo’s mouth. Things Bilbo Baggins would never say. Thorin’s hand on him threatens to unravel him as quick as poorly stitched wool. Thorin’s weight on him, Thorin’s voice murmuring against the triangle of bare chest he has carved from Bilbo’s shirts, Thorin’s promises, heavy in the strong hold of his arms: they pull Bilbo apart like so much flawed crochet, racing toward the slipped stitch, making it his new center, redefining him, undoing things he thought were real but were clearly assumptions based on a mistake.

Thorin cleans up everything he has wrought—with his mouth. Bilbo keens, oversensitive, blinking up at the ceiling, which at least doesn’t have an intense blue gaze that makes him feel things he shouldn’t. Still, he grows hard again before ever really getting soft, eventually, after Thorin refuses to give up his mouthful.

At least he’s not speaking in Khuzdul anymore. He’s just moaning wetly around Bilbo’s cock, spreading his big hands all over Bilbo’s body, taking him in like his cock is what makes Thorin special. It’s insane. It’s all wrong.

“You’re mad,” Bilbo accuses, daring to look down at the crown that’s bent over him, the dark and silver hairs painted across his hips. But if this is madness, Bilbo can’t say he disapproves.

Thorin’s hands spread wider to reach across Bilbo’s stomach, thumbs meeting at his navel.

Bilbo’s thumb worries across the Arkenstone, stowed deep in a well-guarded pocket of his half-discarded cloak. Guilt washes over him, but it’s not enough to quell his need to feel Thorin kiss his way up his torso and up to his lips once again.

 _You’re keeping it from him for his sake_ , Bilbo tells himself, pushing that corner of his cloak deep into the gold coins that sink beneath them like so much mud. Buried in gold, he clutches his hand tight around the Arkenstone, hiding the hungry, desperate strain of his tendons from Thorin, who seems perfectly content to keep his piercing gaze fixed on Bilbo’s eyes as he pries Bilbo open on wet fingers. He watches for every reaction, every twitch, every new burst of humiliating sweat and every curse. His hands respond accordingly. He takes Bilbo’s body the same way he rules his people: attentively. He hoards Bilbo’s pleasure like his own prized possession.

And Bilbo tries not to let his mind wander. He tries not to remember that as soon as the Arkenstone is returned, the king will have no need for him anymore. He tries not to believe that this— _this_ , whatever it is—is a fragile illusion only allowed to exist because he is withholding the treasure Thorin actually wants most. He tries not to feel like he’s sullying what could be true love with his own vanity. He tries not to let his mind flood with images of a wealthy dwarven prince kissing him in front of all the Shire, and to focus instead on the needy, searching kisses of the friend he fell in love with when they were both still covered in dirt and blood.

He tries not to feel like it’s all wrong, like they’re speaking in two different languages, like this is madness.

It’s easy to do when Thorin whispers, “I love you, Bilbo,” against the seam of his lips.


End file.
